


We learn from failure, not from success

by middlemarch



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV), All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: Airports, F/M, Gift Giving, Romance, Travel, Vampires, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-10-01 19:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20381653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: He'd taken the opportunity that presented itself while Diana browsed energy bars and Le Monde at the news agent.





	We learn from failure, not from success

“Damn it,” Diana muttered under her breath. 

“What’s wrong?” Matthew asked. She’d seemed contented once they’d driven up to her aunts’ farmhouse, at ease at a way she hadn’t been since she first called forth Ashmole 782. Even in his bed, in his arms, after he’d joyfully and diligently worked to assure her blinding pleasure, she hadn’t been so relaxed. He’d held his tongue when he caught Sarah’s scent, winter wheat and gorse and gunpowder, knowing the older woman was suspicious of him and he’d drunk the weedy tisane Em had brewed, wishing he’d been able to bring more than one bottle of decent red wine on the flight.

“I must have picked up someone else’s luggage at the airport. This one isn’t mine,” she said, gesturing to the sleek black nylon bag. She’d unzipped it halfway but she hadn’t opened it fully. 

“_Putain_,” Matthew cursed softly. Diana looked startled, her blue eyes wide, her lips parted. She was tired and he hadn’t wanted it to happen this way, not tonight, not until she’d slept and had a chance to wake up with the sun on her face.

“Matthew?”

“That’s mine. Or rather, it’s yours but I didn’t mean to give it to you yet. Not this evening,” he explained.

“I don’t understand. Whose is it?”

“It’s mine but I bought it for you,” he said.

“My own bag is perfectly serviceable, Matthew,” Diana said. She was right. That was the exact definition of her bag: perfectly serviceable, without a shred of style or efficiency, the strap worn and the zipper closing with an extra tug. It was some mottled shade that was no particular color. It held the clothes she’d packed up swiftly when they’d fled Oxford, a few extra articles from Sept-Tours—a silk paisley shawl Marthe had pressed upon her and a cake of lavender soap and a pair of combs Ysabeau had handed her, silver delicately chased with laurel leaves. He’d held his breath when he saw Diana wrap them in the shawl and tuck them in the center of the bag where they’d be safest. He understood his mother was giving her blessing in the de Clermont way. It had moved him deeply—and it had given him an idea.

“It’s a gift.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to give you a gift,” he said.

“You didn’t have to,” she said.

“I know. I bought it because I wanted to, _mon coeur_. Because I wanted you to have it,” he said. She looked at it and brushed her hand across the fabric; he felt her touch against his chest, as if he were bare to her.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not really a luggage kind of girl,” Diana said.

“Open it,” he said. It wasn’t what he’d planned but it was what was happening. He would have to learn to plan differently, mated to a witch.

“Oh, Matthew!” Diana cried, taking out the lingerie, the peony-pink gown with ivory lace, the deeper rose peignoir in yards of chiffon, the filmy chemise, silk stockings, the delicate black silk negligee. He was flooded with the rich scent of her desire, gardenia and marzipan and Lapsang souchong, watched her flush as she handled each item.

“You needn’t wear any of it. Not tonight, not ever if you don’t want to,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to think you need to do anything to please me, only yourself.”

“But you bought them for me,” she said. “Don’t you want to see if you chose right?”

“A burlap sack would be right if you wore it, Diana.” That made her laugh, a little unsteadily but genuinely amused, he recognized that sound, from the first night they’d been intimate.

“I love you, but I wouldn’t wear a burlap sack, even if you bought it for me. This though,” she said, stroking her hand along the negligee, the greatest risk he’d thought when he’d chosen it, “This is very lovely, so very fine. You think it will suit me? I’ve never had anything like it before.”

“I think it was made for you. To see it on you…” he trailed off, dizzy with the image he’d conjured.

“I thought you’d rather see it on the floor,” she said, moving into his arms almost as quickly as he could have taken her, the French silk still clutched in her hand, brushing against his cheek. “I wouldn’t think I could surprise you, you have fifteen hundred years on me.”

“But you see, I’ve never loved a witch before,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like writing something sweet and a little spicy, funny and a little tense. And I like the idea that one of Matthew's love languages is gift-giving but that he respects giving a gift is not the same as receiving it. I toyed with the idea of perfume from the duty free but figured he wouldn't want obscure Diana's scent. I let Ysabeau and Martha give Diana some tokens as well. I cannot for the life of me remember how it works in canon, but my head canon is that Diana's scent changes with her emotions, so it's not always honey and lady's mantle.
> 
> The title is from Bram Stoker's Dracula because who can resist vampire overlap?


End file.
